


Love in the Time of Coronavirus

by 5moreminutes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book Hermione but even more so, COVID-19, Coronavirus, Draco Malfoy Has Grown Up a Lot, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Ministry of Magic Employee Draco Malfoy, Ministry of Magic Employee Hermione Granger, Neither of them gets sick, Smut, Timeline What Timeline, Wash Your Hands, flatten the curve, stay at home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23520349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/5moreminutes/pseuds/5moreminutes
Summary: Hermione Granger is in Milan seeking a magical cure for coronavirus when she finds herself quarantined next to, of all people, Draco Malfoy. Will he be an irritating source of way-too-loud music through their shared wall, or a surprisingly changed person from the prat she thought she knew (and confusingly attractive to boot)? Yes, yes, and yes.A lighthearted one-shot I wrote to help me cope with a devastating global crisis.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 142





	Love in the Time of Coronavirus

**Author's Note:**

> CW: COVID-19  
> We're living in incredibly distressing times, and everyone processes in their own way. I want to be absolutely clear that I am in no way trying to take coronavirus lightly by writing some favorite characters into this situation. If it feels weird or way too soon to be writing stories about this pandemic, I get that, and please do not read any further. My way of coping is apparently to create a tiny fictional bubble that touches on crisis but promises that the characters I love get to be safe. This is my time capsule or Dramione-filtered-mini-journal to remember some of the thoughts and emotions of the beginning of this experience for me. I chose the title because it's the joke everyone is making, and I want to capture that, too.
> 
> A note on time: The Battle of Hogwarts takes place in 1998, of course, when Draco and Hermione were 17 and 18, and this story is obviously set in 2020, but I didn't really picture them as being 40 years old? IDK. Chalk it up to "wasn't 1990 ten years ago?" and imagine them whatever age makes sense to you. I'm thinking roughly late 20s/early 30s.

_~Day 1~_

Hermione was supposed to spend two weeks in Milan, attending a conference on _Early Medieval Spellcraft: Its Modern Applications_ and working in conjunction with local researchers to determine whether archived spells held any useful leads toward a treatment for the virus outbreak happening in China. 

That was, until a COVID-19 outbreak hit Italy as well. Hermione briefly debated with herself whether to petition the British Ministry of Magic to authorize her to Apparate home. Too imprudent, she decided. Harry wouldn’t keep away while she self-quarantined. Even Ron might not, although there was a chance he’d have the sense to be careful, considering that Luna was expecting a baby. No, she could communicate with her Italian colleagues via Floo, and she’d be just as comfortable in the balcony flat she’d rented as she was in her own cottage in England.

Well. Perhaps not exactly as comfortable. Hermione hadn’t taken notice of who was staying in the neighboring flat. But as restrictions increased into full-blown lockdown, she became aware that whoever it was, was...loud. Music blared at all hours, playing anything from punk rock to American country songs to classical Italian opera. Sometimes Hermione thought she could make out a male voice singing along. And then one morning she stepped into the hall, canvas shopping totes draped over her arm, and nearly collided with Draco Malfoy.

His hair was still damp from the shower. He had on a loose-fitting, impossibly soft-looking jumper on underneath a black biker jacket. Hermione was close enough to smell soap and leather.

“What are you doing in Milan?” she demanded.

“Attending Fashion Week, of course,” Malfoy said with a lofty sniff. He looked her up and down, lip curling at the sight of...what was she wearing? A t-shirt and a brown peasant skirt, with trainers. That was normal, right? “Why are you here?” 

Hermione drew herself up, frustratingly aware that even her full height barely reached his chin. “I’m here searching the Arcana for a coronavirus cure, not frittering my energy away on clothes.” 

“Clearly. Don’t let me keep you. Doubtless whatever errand it is you’re about to run, lives hang in the balance. Off you go.” He waved a hand, ushering her to go before him. 

Hermione lifted her nose in the air, made her way to the shops where she ticked off all the items on her list, and hunkered down in her flat for quarantine.

_~Day 3~_

Hermione pounded her fist on the wall again. Keeping her own company for a few weeks wouldn’t drive her batty, but doing so with a constant high-decibel cacophony might. Not that there was anything wrong with Vivaldi, but the _Four Seasons_ had been playing for four hours, and sixteen seasons was really a bit much. Even a _Muffliato_ wasn’t working. Maybe he was magically amplifying the sound through the flat.

She went out on the balcony.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Hey, Malfoy!” She attempted to throw a coin at the window to get his attention. Which was, admittedly, successful.

The music shut off. “What the fuck?” came Malfoy’s voice inside. Then his disapproving face appeared a moment later. “Reparo,” he said, waving his wand at the smashed windowpane. He held up the coin at Hermione.

“Leaving me a tip, Granger? I suppose I appreciate the thought, but the means of delivery leaves something to be desired.”

“Keep it down, Malfoy,” Hermione growled. “Some of us are trying to spend this quarantine doing something useful.”

“Ah. Yes. Sorry. I forgot I was doing nothing useful with my time in Milan.”

“Fashion Week is over, Malfoy.”

He folded his arms casually over the iron railing of the balcony. “What are the chances of you calling me Draco, do you think? We’re neighbors, after all, at least for a little while. It seems unnecessarily formal not to call each other by name.”

“You never called me by my name at Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “‘Granger’ did just fine. When you even chose to call me that.”

“Hogwarts was a long time ago.” He raised one arm so he could rest his cheek on his hand. “As it happens, I’m on the board for an agency connected with the British Wizarding Health Ministry. I’ve been writing medical suppliers and Ministry officials, here and at home. There’s some impediments to shipping medical equipment and Healing compounds across international borders — inspections, typical fees, that sort of thing. I’m trying to facilitate an expedited process.”

“Do you want a biscuit?” Hermione said. “Because it sounds like you’re trying to get rid of problems that never should have been there in the first place and expecting a pat on the back for it.”

He looked stunned and hurt for a moment, before pulling his face back into a composed expression. “What would it take for me to redeem myself to you?” Malfoy asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“My family name is a constant reminder of war and death. Most of our estate went to reparations. As it should, but still. I was as much a child as you were. I was hurt. I was forced into horrific things, and afterward, no one wanted to help me, because they saw me as a Death Eater and not a victim. I’ve donated, I’ve served on boards to promote Mind Healer networks and community rebuilding infrastructure, I’ve worked on campaigns for officials promoting blood tolerance, but a lot of swotty people have decided my life began and ended when I was sixteen and forced into my mission.”

“It’s hard to see you as the real victim when I was the one bleeding on your drawing room floor. And you’ve still just called me a swot.”

“Just because you’re swotty doesn’t mean I wanted you to be tortured! I thought maybe just because I was a little shit when I was a teenager, you wouldn’t want me to live in misery forever, either. I’ve been trying to do some good with my life, Granger. I’m truly sorry that doesn’t mean anything to you,” he said. He turned to go back inside. “I’ll keep the music down.”

_~Day 5~_

Embarrassingly, Hermione found that now she couldn’t concentrate on her work even in the silence. Maybe even especially because of the silence. She kept opening a new tab and searching Malfoy’s name. (The Wizarding World was late to the game on Internet compared to Muggles, but they made up for it in enthusiasm once they figured it out.) 

Draco’s name, really. Searching ‘Malfoy’ really did bring up a lot of material about his parents and family history, and Hermione only wanted to check in on what happened after the war. Using his first name cut through the irrelevant hits.

The things he’d said checked out. The public donations records were easy enough to find. A few photos of him at community rebuilding events looked familiar. Hermione vaguely remembered brushing his presence off as a showy, smarmy git who could see which way the wind blew and would kiss up anyone to social climb. Hermione dug up some published papers and articles with his byline, though. If he was only in it for appearances, he was taking on a considerable amount of work and trouble to do it.

So when she heard the scrape of a chair on the neighboring balcony, she steeled herself and ventured outside, too. 

Malfoy curled his lip. “I can’t help making _some_ noise, Granger. I’m not going to cower in bed all day just because you require monastic silence.”

“That’s not why I came out.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t have tact,” Hermione said. “That’s why I never ran for Minister. I’m not good at saying the right thing. I get defensive when I’m surprised.” She took a breath. “You surprised me. I thought you were — I didn’t realize you’d worked so hard to make amends. Or that you meant it.”

He was sitting very still. “There’s a lot to make up for,” he said at last. “I shouldn’t have expected that you’d be willing to put the war behind us. Hoped. Whatever. You’re right, of course, you were brutalized in my own home and there’s no reason why you should ever look at my face without thinking of — that.” He waved a hand in the general direction of Hermione’s arm.

Hermione looked at the crooked letters in her arm. “I really don’t. Honestly. I had nightmares about Bellatrix, for a while. Took a lot of Mind Healer sessions to work through that. But I don’t see it and think of you. I don’t think of much of anything, really. It’s just my arm. I don’t even register this anymore except for giving it a scrub in the shower. They’re just scars. They don’t have to mean anything. I don’t think you’re responsible for anything that happened to me in the war. I was just under the impression that you were still a prick.”

Malfoy nodded, straight faced. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Good Lord, is that true? That’s a very sobering idea to consider, even taking our history into account.”

His eyes crinkled with a hint of playfulness. “That was sort of meant to be a joke, Granger. Although. If you’d like to set your standard higher, I can’t say I’m surprised, for one, and I’d happily oblige you with a place to start.”

Hermione put a hand on her hip. “I can’t say I’m surprised you’re ready to ask for something. What is it, then?”

“Call me by name. Let me be my own person.”

“I suppose I can try that.”

“And maybe come out sometime. I’m going half-mad in here with no company.”

Hermione laughed. “It’s been two days since the last time we talked! Floo your mum if you’re already that desperate.”

Malfoy laughed, too. “You really don’t have tact, do you?” He got up from the chair. “Maybe that’s not a bad idea. And I have some work to finish this afternoon, as well. See you around, Granger.”

Hermione felt a wry smile play across her mouth. As if she was going to see anyone else for the foreseeable future. “You too. Draco.”

_~Day 6~_

Despite having set herself reminders to get up and walk at least 500 steps in her flat every hour on the hour, as well as completing a low-impact exercise routine before breakfast each morning, Hermione couldn’t deny her restlessness. She was, frankly, sick of the sight of the flat, no matter how tastefully decorated it may be. The balcony was her only chance at fresh air and a chance to see something new. Even if that meant she might encounter Malfoy as well. Draco. Whatever she was supposed to call him now.

He was already sitting out on his balcony. He was still wearing a nicely-tailored shirt and proper trousers, and even Italian leather shoes. Hermione could appreciate that. Her coworkers were talking a lot of nonsense about working in pajamas. It lacked discipline. Taking the time to dress and groom oneself showed a pleasant sense of mental balance and propriety. A certain amount of consideration for others, too. Hermione couldn’t help registering her own mood perking up at the sight of another person. Her gaze skimmed hungrily over him, from the casual sweep of white-blond hair to the easy way his long legs stretched out, toes tapping the iron bars of the balcony. If Hermione was only going to get to see one person close up, well then. She could have done worse.

It barely seemed possible, never mind likely given their past, but if Draco’s face was any indication, he felt the same way. Hermione had on a favorite pair of cranberry-red jeans, snug but stretchy, with a ribbed jumper that featured three bars of fabric across the V of the neckline. She wore her usual necklace, a long chain with a time-turner pendant (not the real thing anymore). Draco seemed to have some trouble keeping his eyes from following the dangling pendant. He cleared his throat and gestured his glass of wine at the orange-and-coral sky.

“The perks of living in a west-facing flat,” he said. “We get some nice views come end of day. Might as well pour a nice drink and enjoy it.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” Hermione admitted.

Draco sat forward. “You didn’t buy wine?”

“I was trying to make an efficient trip, to minimize exposure. I followed my list.”

“You’re in Italy, on lockdown, and took the time to make a list of what you needed, and you didn’t buy _wine?”_

Hermione’s neck felt warm. “It’s a simple oversight. Anyone could have made the same mistake. I remembered the important things. I have — I have toilet roll, and a good variety of shelf-stable, plant-based protein and carbohydrate options, and multivitamins—”

“Multivitamins,” Draco said. He blinked. “This is unconscionable. Granger, get a glass. I’ll be right back.” He stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Get. A glass,” his voice repeated from inside his flat.

She found a wine glass in the cupboard and returned to the balcony. Draco appeared a moment later, a bottle in one hand and corkscrew in the other.

“I’ve got a bottle of Montepulciano open, but maybe that’s too much contamination for you,” he said. “So I’ll open one in front of you.”

He put the wine bottle between his legs. Hermione wasn’t going to look, obviously, but it was right there. His legs looked strong. His left hand gripped the bottle while the right worked in neat, sure circles, coaxing at the cork. Hermione wasn’t thinking about sitting on his lap at all. Draco murmured, “Easy now — there, perfect,” as the stubborn cork finally came free, and Hermione’s mouth watered. For wine.

Draco held out a hand. “May I?”

Hermione looked down at her glass, then across the distance to Draco’s balcony. Much too far to reach. “You want me to toss it?” she said doubtfully.

“No, I don’t want you to toss it. I’m being polite.” He drew his wand. “Wingardium leviosa.”

The glass shifted in Hermione’s grasp. She released it and watched it float to Draco. His fingertips just touched the curve of the glass, and then his hand fit around it. Hermione watched the garnet-colored liquid swirl as it filled the glass. She wondered if he cupped it like that so his hand could warm it to the optimal drinking temperature. Then she wondered how long, exactly, it really had been since she’d had human contact, if she was thinking silly things about Draco Malfoy’s hands. Nearly a week of confinement, but had she even had so much as a handshake from a colleague for days before that? They’d all been trying to be so careful.

As Draco lifted the bottle, a last drop fell from the lip and landed on the outer curve of the glass, running down toward his hand. He cast the levitation spell to send the full glass floating back to Hermione, and he licked the drop of wine off his thumb.

“I do know how to pour a glass of wine correctly, by the way. I thought in times like these, more might be warranted.”

The glass was filled more than three-quarters full. As soon as Hermione touched it, she could already smell a lush, velvety aroma, with a hint of spice.

She sipped. The wine was rich, smooth, full. Flavors sparked as the wine rolled over the sensitive length of her tongue, complex and warm and surprising.

Draco was looking at her thoughtfully. “Lots of black fruit in this one. A little joke with myself, you know? The Blacks. Like having family around, in wine form. Blackberry, plum, damson, blackcurrant. Then something mellow, violet or vanilla maybe, and black pepper right at the end.”

“So you know about wine,” she said. She peered into the glass. “I suppose that’s reasonably impressive. What else do you know?”

He let out a brief laugh. “Let me turn out my pockets. I’m still handy with potions. I don’t fly well anymore, not that I remember you caring that much about most Quidditch games. I know a bit about Healing magic, but more about money. I made it through a year and a half of school for Healing before I decided I’d be better use directing budgets than sitting by bedsides.”

“You have a very haughty manner,” Hermione agreed, making herself more comfortable in her own chair. “You’ve always been quick with your tongue, too. Both of those must help you be more effective in your work. I can see why you’re here working closely with policy.”

Draco looked half-stunned. “Not where I expected you to land, after that start,” he remarked. “I’ll take it, though. What about you? What’s your area of expertise, these days?”

Hermione made a face. “Research. Same as it’s always been.” She took another sip of the wine, letting the flavors unfold in her mouth, trying to decide if she tasted damson. “I used to be better at adventure. Harry’s getting Auror commendations and learning dragon-riding with Charlie Weasley. Ron spent the summer in Costa Rica with Luna cataloguing tropical fairy species. I still spend a lot of time in libraries. I’ve published a few books interpreting some of the long-term trends I’ve documented in post-war culture and infrastructure, but those don’t usually go over as well at parties.”

Draco smirked. “Maybe you need to start going to better parties.” 

The street lamps winked on. Hermione thought, as she often did, of Dumbledore, and his Deluminator, and the way she and the others had lifted their wands to be light in the darkness. She stole a glance at Draco. For the first time, she wondered if he had ached to be with them, that night, raising his wand and feeling closer to everyone else working for good.

A voice lifted in the darkening air. Only a line into the song, another voice joined to sing harmony. The balconies came to life even faster than the streetlamps, voices ringing out in steady measure to bring the aria into a full chorus. 

Draco began to sing, too, softly. Hermione’s Italian didn’t extend to music, but the song swelled inside her anyway. It felt like the whole neighborhood was full of it.

It wasn’t adventure, what was happening around them. Far from it. The world changed overnight every night, and it was terrifying. But Hermione held her breath listening to strangers making something beautiful together, and she felt glad that this was possible, too.

_~Day 9~_

A firm rap at the door startled Hermione. How strange, to find an outside presence alarming after such a relatively short period of time. Hermione rose from her desk as if from a dream. The flat may as well have been underwater, Corinthian crown molding and gilded trim submerged, Hermione floating past, holding her breath. All the heavy, traditional, Italian leather chairs and claw-footed tables anchored to the ground by their own stubborn weight, too far away to swim to and sit in anymore. When she opened the door, the pressure of the water bursting would blast the entire hall clear.

She opened the door. Instead of a torrent of water surging out, Draco surged in, anxious gray eyes and a bitter twist to his mouth.

“I can’t. All right? I can’t be by myself,” Draco said. 

Hermione didn’t need to ask why he was here now. The answer wasn’t important. Too much news, too many sirens, too many days alone. Identifying the precise tipping point didn’t matter. What mattered was that hearing his voice this close to her, close enough that he wasn’t raising it with that half-ironic inflection he used to show he knew how weird it was to call across balconies, lit all the loneliness Hermione had mostly buried under piles of work. It took hearing the words aloud in the gorgeous, dismal rented flat she was trapped in (lucky, so lucky to be in, but trapped) to unlock the sentence in her heart.

“Me neither,” Hermione said. Like a puzzle box, or a spell, that sentence also linked the next bit into place. She knew what was wrong with the twist of Draco’s mouth, she realized. She knew how to fix it. She put a hand on his collarbone first (gods, the warmth of that, the firmness, the absolutely forbidden thrill of contact), then slid her hand to the back of his neck and kissed him.

Oh. Oh, how was it possible she hadn’t felt the whole time how badly she needed this? Her little and ring fingers were below the edge of his collar, touching a smooth vertebra in his neck. Draco had missed one bristle while he was shaving — Hermione could feel the tiny prick beside her nose, and it was the most intimate thing she’d ever felt, except for his breath in her mouth. She felt him shift weight, and heard the door slam when he kicked it shut behind him. He pressed his mouth more securely against hers, and she clung to him like ivy.

Draco kissed like he knew how Hermione’s brain flew away without her sometimes. He put a hand under her jaw and tilted her face to him, commanding her focus. He kissed her with intent and delineation. It wasn’t just one long, protracted snog affair. There were pauses, and little adjustments in angle, that felt like nuance and syntax. Kissing was communication, and just when Hermione was going to start second-guessing what the message was supposed to be, Draco’s tongue went in her mouth. In the surprise and pleasure of new touch, she impulsively sucked it. Draco groaned and ground his hips against her thigh, and Hermione realized she knew what she was doing after all.

“A bed?” Draco gasped into Hermione’s ear when she pulled his shirt out from his trousers.

“Yes, good idea,” she said. She touched his wrist (so many places!) to take him to the bedroom door.

In her bedroom, she undid his trousers. He took off her shirt and closed his eyes when she put her hand around his cock, but opened them when he took off her bra. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her skirt and dropped it off of her. Draco put his hands on Hermione’s hips and steered her backward to sit on the edge of the bed. He grazed his teeth on her collarbone. He put his mouth on her breasts. Hermione leaned back on her hands. Draco hit a sensitive spot, and Hermione clutched at the fabric of the bedspread. She traced the inside of her foot along Draco’s calf, bending her knee to make room for him to put his hips closer to hers.

“Scoot up,” he told her, and then he got to his knees next to the bed.

Hermione came for the first time that afternoon with Draco’s hands firm on her inner thighs, holding them apart. She was going to roll up to a sitting position to switch, but he got up first and crawled overtop of her. 

“I have an IUD,” she said, and he nodded. He got himself arranged how he liked first. Hermione kissed the side of his neck up to his mouth again, catching the exhale of relief he made when he slid inside her.

“That’s good, that’s so good,” he crooned.

They had sex with Hermione lying flat on her back for a little while, and when she kept pushing her hips up to try to get the angle she needed, Draco sat back on his knees and put his hands under her knees, hiking her legs up around his hips. Then he put one hand on the mattress next to her and started rocking again, keeping the other hand under her rear to hold her in place. There was more of a swinging motion to the thrusts this time, and Hermione’s eyes fluttered shut.

“Touch yourself,” he said.

She opened one eye. “Are you sure? You wouldn’t mind?”

“Are you,” he grunted. “Fucking kidding me? I want to see you come, Granger, and I’m out of hands to do it. Show me.”

She put her hand between her legs. The pressure of his cock angling upward from the inside all but served up her clit on a platter. It was like he’d stretched it out from underneath so every touch she made hit more sensors. His lower belly brushed against her knuckles on each thrust, adding an extra counter-rhythm to every stroke of her fingers. It was absolutely nothing like the rhythm she could manage on her own, and it was undeniably better. Hermione hit the point she usually did in an orgasm, where it felt too good to keep her fingers going at the same pace. She was going to let the feeling sort of crackle around her like she usually did, but Draco was still going, and picked up the pace slightly, so her palm kept rubbing his rhythm, and instead of the orgasm fizzling back down like it usually did, it was like something went _“woomph”_ between her legs and zinged out right past the borders of her body. She choked out something that might have been his name, and he came too, and ten minutes afterward they were both still sprawled out over each other, looking at the ceiling.

“I should probably reset my quarantine calendar,” Hermione said finally.

Draco exhaled a short laugh. “Yeah, I’d say we broke those guidelines pretty thoroughly.”

His hand was lying palm-up on Hermione’s lower belly. She touched her fingertips one by one against the smooth underside of his forearm.

“We are neighbors,” Hermione said slowly. “I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery, either, even just another flat. Or we could maybe even consider what spells might work for a door in the adjoining wall. We could try a different arrangement. This could be Day One for us. If you want.”

Draco looked at Hermione’s fingers walking their way along his arm. He slid his arm so he could take her by the hand. Hermione looked back at his face, at the way he curled himself so comfortably on the bed. It was going to be their bed, now, she realized. It had just started to be.

“Day One,” Draco said.

_Fin_

**Author's Note:**

> I really didn't expect to write another Dramione at all, never mind so soon after finishing Chosen, but pandemic does what it does to creativity, I guess. I had a lot of fun writing a much prissier Hermione this time around. I'm rereading Divination for Skeptics by olivieblake right now, and I would highly recommend it. I want to give Olivie due credit for writing a fascinating interpretation of Hermione that inspired me to try leaning in that direction as well.
> 
> The wine Draco opens for Hermione might be a Bonarda, an earthy, medium-bodied red from Northern Italy.
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, and please stay home and be safe and healthy. <3


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